


Hard Feelings

by red_crate



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Child Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Gen, M/M, POV Alternating, Redemption, Self-Harm, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:51:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate
Summary: There's nothing soft about Billy Hargrove.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've got a lot of feels. This is a slow build, so hang in there.  
> ***  
> Child abuse: Neil is about the same level of mentally and physically abusive to Billy in this as portrayed in canon. 
> 
> Self harm: Billy puts out a cigarette on himself.

 

He's shivering. That's the first thing Billy registers when he wakes up. The bone deep cold and the ache in his hands, on his face, wake him up until he's pulling himself together on Byer’s living room floor. At first, he doesn't remember how he got on the floor. The memories come flooding back, jumbled and jarring in the wake of whatever sedative he was stabbed with. He's so fucking cold, though, and he doesn't see any of the assholes that had been here just a little bit ago. He reaches for a blanket hanging off the end of the couch and tugs it around his shoulders as he looks around the empty room with all the windows open, front door left ajar to allow November cold to roll inside the house.

“Max?” he yells from his spot on the floor, heart beating faster in his chest as he realizes he doesn't hear anything, not even the sound of crickets or traffic in the distance. “Maxine!” he barks, getting to his feet with wobbly legs that don't want to hold him up right.

He reaches down and cups himself, remembering, and breathes a sigh of relief.

“You little shits are in so much trouble! Come on!” Billy's feet shuffle forward. The longer he's upright, the more steady he feels. Whatever Max stuck him with is leaving his system, just a pounding headache and a foggy brain left in its wake. _Couldn't have been that strong_ , he thinks to himself.

He tries again, “Harrington?”

Shit, what if they aren't here because they took Steve to the hospital? Something bitter and ugly rises up in him at the thought of paramedics whisking away the bruised up King Steve but leaving Billy out cold on the floor after being stabbed with a syringe filled with some kind of drug.

He could have died.

Anger, familiar and comforting, courses through him as he gains momentum. Each room he checks is empty though, windows pushed open to the night like the whole house needed to be exorcised of something dark. It's bizarre. This whole night has been one long, confusing experience.

Billy snatches one of the hundreds of papers taped along the walls, colored like a bruise with crayon. What the fuck.

Wherever they went, Billy has to find them and get Max. Get her home to her mommy and to Neil. The time on his watch stares back at him unyielding, mocking with the knowledge that he's been passed out for almost two hours—longer than he gauged. It's nearing midnight, and he's still not back with Max.

Neil is going to kill him.

 

He gets twenty minutes down the road— walking because his fucking camero is _gone_. He's more pissed than ever. Max and her shifty little friends, Steve randomly playing den mother or some shit to those brats...the way they up and ditched him and stole his car. Billy stares into the darkness of the road as he keeps putting one foot in front of the other. He doesn't know where they went or if he's going to get arrested for assault, doesn't know where to look for Max next or if he'll survive his dad when he finally walks through that door. The fear rolling in his gut only fuels the anger at himself. Why the fuck does he care about any of it? What's the point?

Billy throws up suddenly, bile hot and sour at the back of his throat. Coughing, his ribs hurt with each heave. He spits the last of the mess onto the pavement between his boots, wipes his mouth off with a corner of the blanket he took with him when he realized his leather jacket was still in the camaro.

Blinding light sweeps across him then, and he hears the rumble of an engine he should have noticed sooner. Blocking the stabbing brightness with his forearm, Billy waves at the approaching car with his other hand. Maybe he can catch a ride into town. He should have called Tommy and got him to pick him up instead, ride over to Harrington’s to make sure they didn't move the party over there—go to the hospital and check, just in case. Something.

That's his car rolling to a stop in front of him though. He blinks.

When the driver side door swings open, Steve slowly pushes out of the interior. “I see you're still kicking,” he calls out, voice kind of flat.

Billy tosses the blanket aside and rushes towards Steve, fingers itching to finish the job they started—pound away some of that turmoil roiling inside his veins. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Steve Harrington stole his fucking car and took the brats, his step-sister, on what? A joy ride?

“Billy,” Max snaps, warning, from the back where she pushed the seat up. “We need to go home.”

He scoffs. _Tell me something I don't know_.

Finally looking at Steve, Max, and the others he can see peering at him through the windows, Billy asks, “What the fuck? Why are you dressed like that?”

Steve has a pair of swimming goggles pushed up to the crown of his head, hair tangled and sticking out every which way. There's a bandana pulled down around his throat. Billy's gaze lingers on the bright bandaids holding Steve's split skin together. Dirt and blood and bruises cover Steve's face. He looks like a walking corpse, and his weary eyes do little more than highlight the zombie quality. When Billy's gaze wanders over the kids, he realizes they're all wearing an odd assortment of masks. He ignores the pause the sight gives him. There's only so much weirdness he can deal with, and, right now, he's got more pressing shit.

He rounds the open door and yanks Steve by the collar and bandana, shoves him away from the car. “Get out.”

The words hang in the air and leave Billy recoiling slightly. Ignoring it and latching onto the relief of having Max and his car back, Billy leans down to glare at the kids. He stares at Sinclair for an extra beat before growling, “Everyone but Max get out.”

Steve is behind him, flapping his hands and muttering a, “Hey, hey, hey,” but Billy just pulls his seat forward so Max can let out the other dweebs from the back, clenching his jaw the whole time.

He's too tired and angry and mad to talk. Steve’s black eyes and bloodied face hang behind Billy's eyelids with each blink. Billy really might have killed him in that moment earlier, hadn't been able to think or really even see past the rush he got from having someone under him and at his mercy. Steve’s not dead though, and he could still get arrested.

Once he's back in his car and the kids are huddled around Steve on the road, Billy takes a second to rummage through the floorboard where his jacket was kicked and pulls out a half crushed pack of cigarettes. He taps one out and sticks it between his chapped lips, lights it with the Zippo Steve tosses onto the dashboard through the open door—Billy's Zippo that he must have borrowed just like he borrowed the car.

Billy exhales smoke. “Have a good night,” he calls out, eyes closed as he puts the car into reverse. When he opens them to pull the door shut, Steve is giving him this look he can't decipher.

“Billy—” Max tries to say something, but Billy cuts her off.

“I swear to God, if you don't shut up,” he keeps his eyes on the road as he uses too much gas and swings the car around so they're pointing to the direction of home. “Don't talk. Don't even breathe too loud.”

He can still see Max standing over him with that nightmare of a bat, see the hardness in her eyes as she swung it down between his legs until wood met nails and ripped. He's seen that look before. He knows she meant it, means it.

Max is quiet behind him, for which Billy is too thankful. She doesn't push him and doesn't remind him of how she made him her little bitch.

With each mile the tires eat up, Billy's chest feels tighter and tighter.

 

Max seems just as hesitant to climb out of the car when Billy cuts the engine outside their house as he is. Not that the delay helps any, not that it stops the front door from swinging open and Neil and Susan rushing at them.

They're already talking, Neil's deep voice cutting straight through the fog Billy's head feels submerged in as he waits.

Everything happens too quickly, slowed down like it's happening frame by frame.

His dad, “Where have you been? Do you know what time it is?”

Susan, “Are you okay? Max? Billy?”

The words wash over Billy, and he moves mechanically. The bruising clutch of his dad's fingers around the back of his neck as he leads Billy into the house pulse. Max’s red hair is a blur in Billy's periphery. He can hear Susan talking, see her hugging Max to her side as she backs away from them, lets his dad shove him into the house and the bathroom.

Fingers in his hair tugging too sharp, and Billy surfaces enough to hear what his dad is saying again.

“You are nothing but a disrespectful little piss ant. I'm tired of your disrespect and your disregard for the rules. You deliberately disobeyed me and went out with that whore, leaving your sister God knows where until midnight.”

Each word is quiet, underscored with a deadly tone and Billy's hair twisting in his fist. He uses the grip to push him over the edge of the counter until the laminate corner digs into his chest and his temple presses against the curve of the sink.

It wouldn't be the first time Billy's had the belt, but God it's been long enough that he hoped maybe Neil thought he outgrew it. Billy shakes. His hands grip the counter, and he wants to push away and run. But he's trapped.

“Time you fucking looked like a real man, not these fucking faggy curls,” his dad is saying as he uses his free hand to dig through a drawer to their right. He gets the clippers out and plugs them in. It's not the belt he's pulling out, not leather biting into his tender flesh.

He's got to get out of here anyway. The sharp snap of the clippers coming to life, humming and promising loss spurs him into motion.

Billy struggles, can't help trying to wiggle away from the hum of the blade’s motor. He can barely focus on the details, just needs it to not happen.

His dad picks him up by the hair and slams him face forward again, leaving Billy's vision starbursting and his brain jarred. “Stay still or I'll cut you,” he warns, like he cares if Billy has one more cut, one more hurt.

Billy slams his eyes shut and chokes back the angry sob in his chest. He can feel the hair falling over his face. He can feel the drag the the clippers’ guard, too fast and catching in tangles, over his scalp. He can feel the mean satisfaction rolling off his dad with each jagged pass.

Eventually the grip in his hair leaves as the curls are cut away. He turns his face away, reluctantly offering the other side of his head instead of waiting for his dad to bark at him and shove him some more. He just wants it over with.

When it is, his dad steps back and clicks the clippers off, then drops them to the counter. “Clean up and get to bed.”

Billy waits until he can't hear his dad anymore before he moves. His throat feels like blades where he's been suppressing his sobs, knowing if his dad saw him cry over a haircut things would just be worse than they already are. He pushes up slowly and stares at his reflection. He hasn't had short hair since he was thirteen when he was forced to keep it high and tight. He doesn't really even recognize himself through the shine in his eyes, just sees a blur of color and movement.

Not that he wants to see it anyway. Doesn't want to see his red eyes and bloody lip where it split again during the scuffle.

Somehow he gets the majority of the hair in the trash and is sitting on his bed, alone, before he knows it. The cigarette between his lips causes a dull ache where it presses against his top lip, but that's okay.

He stares into the distance, breathing and not thinking. If he thinks he'll have to break shit, rage against anything he can get his fists on. If he does that, his dad will be right back in his face, putting him in his place.

Billy's had too much. Too much.

So he doesn't think. He sits on the edge of his bed. He takes careful drag after drag off his cigarette. He breathes, and he doesn't think.

His hands are trembling when he pulls the butt from his mouth. Gaze drifting down, he stares at the cherry on the end and watches the thin smoke wind up.

Turning his wrist, Billy doesn't think and just does. His nostrils flare and teeth grind when the cherry fizzles and chokes out. The soft hiss of flesh burning is drowned out by the ragged, wet sound of his own uneven breathing. It hurts. It’s a searing pain that cuts through the dull ache of his entire body, slices right through the fog of his brain until he can't think past the screaming of his nerve endings. The fresh, bright pain singing in his veins washes past the anger and hurt.

When the cigarette is out, he drops the butt between his feet and looks at the angry red and black wound left in its wake. He doesn't know why he did it, just that he did—that it hurts, but at the same time it's satisfying.

Billy skids away from thought, away from questioning himself and everything else. Framing the small blister between his thumb and finger, Billy squeezes the flesh together until he loses his breath as a fresh wave of stinging pain shoots up his arm.

His vision wavers. Closing his eyes, a hot spill of tears slide down his cheeks. Not just two or three. They keep coming, pouring out of him and wetting his face. He's crying.

Billy slowly falls to his side and pulls his knees onto the bed, muffling a reedy whine into the bedspread. Shame tries to twist him up inside, twine with the anger and hurt and confusion in his head. But even with his dad's voice echoing in his skull, _“Men don't cry,”_ Billy can't rein himself in. He holds his arm, the one with the burn, against his chest and lets the fabric of his shirt tug at it. It hurts. It hurts, and that's why Billy's crying.

He cries and he sobs and he suffocates on spit and snot and the stale scent of laundry detergent.

When he curls up tight in a ball, his body curls in on itself and his hands come up to clutch at his face. He cries harder, cries until he can't breathe and everything hurts and he can't think.

Then, he sleeps.

 

A gentle knock on his door rouses Billy early the next morning. Normally, his body naturally wakes itself—alarm or not—by seven. When he looks at the radio clock next to his bed, however, he realizes it's almost eight thirty.

He wipes at his eyes, at the scratchy, tight feeling there, and croaks, “Yeah?”

Susan is the one knocking, and he doesn't know if he's relieved or not. She slowly opens the door, but doesn't quite come inside. She never really comes into his room, a fact that he is thankful for.

“Good morning,” she says with a tight smile. Her blue eyes roam over his face, and there's a pinched look to her expression that Billy doesn't quite understand. She asks, “After breakfast, would you be up for going coat shopping?”

The last thing Billy wants to do is spend a couple hours with his step-mom shopping. He scoots to the edge of his bed, realizing he never even took his boots off. His feet feel cramped and too warm.

He leans forward and pulls them off, speaking, “I'm not grounded?”

Susan crosses her arms, but it doesn't look disproving. It looks like she's shielding herself. She says, “You are. So is Max. But both of you need winter coats, and I was planning to get this done this weekend anyway.”

Billy watches her gaze turn down the hall as she pauses. Then she's looking back at Billy, expression somehow softer. “I can even that up before we leave.”

Billy runs a hand over his head and grimaces. He can feel the uneven patches of hair where his dad hadn't bothered to make sure everything was cut evenly. He probably looks like shit.

“Okay,” he says.

Susan looks a little taken aback by his acceptance, but then she's smiling at him and nodding. “Well, I need to check on Max. I'll be back in minute to help.”

When she's gone, Billy pushes his bedroom door shut again and changes into a black tee with the collar ripped off and into a looser pair of jeans. He wants a cigarette and some juice but figures brushing his teeth will go a long way to get rid of the gross taste in his mouth.

“Ready?” Susan asks after knocking on the open bathroom door a few minutes later.

Billy had ducked out of his room and scanned what he could see of the living room, but his dad wasn't anywhere in sight. Maybe he had gone outside to work in the shed so he didn't have to look at his disappointing son. Either way, it was a relief not to be yelled at first thing in the morning.

Billy spits toothpaste into the sink and rises his mouth out, feeling a little more awake. He avoids looking at his reflection, ducking down instead to get the clippers back out of the cabinet he put them in last night. Susan isn't too much shorter than him, so he plugs in the cord and hands the device over to her without getting a chair to sit in.

At the sound of the motor whirring to life, Billy can't help grimacing and closing his eyes. His hands ball up into fists by his sides.

“You look very handsome with short hair,” Susan hedges after a good thirty seconds of silence between them. She keeps each pass of the clippers gentle and quick. “I think you'll still have all the ladies’ attention.”

Billy feels stiff and uneasy with Susan so close to him, talking like this haircut was something Billy wanted. He scoffs lightly, “Sure.”

A few more moments of awkward silence hang between them as Billy lets Susan trim his hair. She tries again. “I know you and your father don't always see eye to eye, but—”

“I don't want to talk about it, if it's all the same to you,” Billy cuts her off. His jaw aches from where his teeth have been grinding, and he doesn't want to hear what she has to say.

It'll be the same variation of _“it's not so bad”_ that she always tries to give him.

He wants to yell at her, get in her face and scream, _“Are you delusional?”_ He never does, though. He sees her hover from the sidelines of his and his dad's “arguments” and sees how she winces, how she cringes at the things he says and does.

Sometimes a darker part of Billy wonders why he tries. Susan signed up for Neil, after all. That same dark part sometimes wishes he wasn’t singled out, wasn't the only one being shoved around. Maybe then Susan would finally wise up and leave them. She and Max make things so much harder than they used to be for Billy, back when he only had himself to protect.

Susan goes quiet, frowning her hurt little frown in Billy's periphery. Her hand is soft and careful against the side of Billy's face when she needs to turn his head.

The touch makes his skin crawl.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was started almost nine months ago, when I was neck deep in my feels about all the bullshit Billy must have went through as a kid growing up with Neil. I let the story die, however, because I wasn’t really sure how I wanted to go about building what I wanted to see as Billy’s redemption to himself, Max, and the Party. After seeing s3, however, my feelings are about a million times stronger plus I have way more insight to what canon Billy did go through. Looks like I’m back on this bullshit. 
> 
> It’s still gonna be a slow build as far as Harringrove goes. <3

 

What do you do after you help save the world  _ again _ ? 

“Ready?” Steve finds himself asking Jonathan and Nancy Monday morning. 

It had taken a whole lot of effort to get out of bed this morning. He doesn't think he's really over the emotional drain trudging through The Upside Down left in him. He hasn't been able to sleep without having nightmares about the fucked up flower-faced demodogs they battled. A whole lot of coffee had to be consumed this morning before he could even think about leaving the house.

Nancy nods, squaring her shoulders as if this is just one more fight they're heading into. Steve can't help but notice how she's standing just a little closer to Jonathan. They look like a  _ pair _ . “Life goes on. It's finally over.” She says that with such finality that Steve actually feels comforted.

He looks at her delicate face in profile, thinking how strong and beautiful she is. He misses her.

“Come on. It's only eight hours,” Jonathan says, breaking Steve out of his melancholic thoughts. Jonathan exchanges a private, hopeful smile with Nancy before his gaze slides over Steve. The smiles turns hesitant.

Steve looks away, shrugging his bag up onto his shoulder more firmly. “Yup. Just eight hours of teachers droning on and on.” 

An engine rumbling draws his attention, and dread is coiling in his gut before he can even identify why. But then he sees the dark blue camaro prowling up the parking lot and sliding into a spot not nearly far enough away from them. Steve mutters, “Shit,” under his breath.

The three of them stare at the camaro, and Steve finds himself thinking about Max—just some girl he hadn't even known before Saturday—jamming a syringe in Billy's neck and then threatening him with the bat. Billy stomps around school and gets in everyone's face trying to prove how badass he is. Then his little sister just proves herself within twelve hours of meeting Steve. He'd say it is amusing, but it really just feels morbidly ironic.

Billy’s door swings open, and he steps out of his car. Instead of his usual jean jacket, he's got a shearling coat that looks brand new—something that actually has a chance to keep out the cold—but that's not what has Steve's eyebrows raising and Nancy letting out a quiet, “huh.” 

As if feeling the weight of their eyes on him, Billy turns and zeroes right on them. His gaze narrows, earring shivering where it hangs exposed against his neck. 

His long, curly hair is gone, just a short style left behind. 

It makes him look almost  _ vulnerable _ , and Steve thinks to himself,  _ “yeah, right.” _ There's nothing vulnerable or soft about Billy Hargrove. Steve's felt his hard fists pound into him, felt the sharp words flung at him with intent to wound. 

“Let's go,” he says, looking away from the piercing glare Billy is shooting at him. 

If Billy had been able to feel them looking at him, Steve can still feel the heavy weight of Billy's gaze. It's a relief when he realizes Billy isn't making moves to follow them, to maybe try and finish the pretty fucking thorough job he'd done Saturday. Steve swears his bruised face throbs a little bit worse, and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end.

 

The feeling of being watched sticks with him all day. Even with Nancy using some makeup on him, the bruises and swelling—the cuts—he looks like shit. A fact that Tommy tells him with a voice laced in awe. Yeah, Steve's seen his reflection, and he knows he looks like someone used his face for a speed bag. It definitely  _ feels _ that way too.

Still, he tries to ignore the looks that follow him, the whispers and rumors. Assuring the assistant principal that everything is fine was not a fun conversation to have. 

He pops another aspirin just before the third period bell rings dismissing class. At least Mr. Edwards had taken long enough to talk to him that once he was handed the excuse slip, Steve felt it was safe to stretch his time to the whole period. He'd slipped outside the science wing and stared at the dead grass of the soccer field while he smoked a couple cigarettes from the crumpled box in the bottom of his bag. He hadn't really been thinking about much. He had just coasted on the quiet little pocket of space he'd found for himself. He didn't have to stuff down the stupid ache of rejection, didn't have to dodge the questions and assumptions about the state of his face. He didn't have to pull at the reserves of strength he hadn't even known he had in order to fight a bunch of demon creatures and keep a group of middle schoolers safe. So he smoked, and he watched the frost in the grass melt a little under the sun.

It couldn't last forever, but the break was nice.

By the time he scrounges up the energy to head back inside, the period is over. Steve gets swept up in the press of bodies pouring from classrooms. Some of them are going to their next period, some of them are going to lunch. He should get some food down. 

He bumps against someone by accident, but then he's shoved right back by a hand to the chest pressing him up against the wall.

“Looks like someone got you good,” Billy—of course it's Billy—speculates. “You're not so pretty anymore. Don't worry though, you'll be back to normal in no time.” 

Steve smacks Billy's hand off him, but doesn't have the energy to do anything more. He can see something in Billy's eyes that looks almost bitter. It makes Steve flinch. “I'm sure you're real concerned,” he sneers, straightening his shirt front. “Nice hair. Did you get lice or something?” 

Billy's mouth stretches tight. “Nah. Got tired of the old look.” He looks Steve up and down, expression hardening. “Why haven't you told anyone?” 

Steve isn't that much of a smoker, but the urge is one he's been giving into a lot more often. Even though he just got finished, his fingers itch to have something to fiddle with. He crosses his arms, wondering if he should tell the truth. “I'm surprised you haven't been crowing about it. Since you're so obsessed with being better than  _ King Steve _ .” 

Billy narrows his eyes, before smiling again. “We're friends. A disagreement isn't a big deal.”

Steve balks at the words. “You're a fucking psycho. You attacked a friggin  _ kid _ ! We are not friends!” He keeps his voice quiet, shakes his head, grimacing at the idea. “You knocked me out. That's not  _ friends _ .” 

“That kid wouldn't stop bugging Max. And you got in my way.” Billy steps forward, getting up in Steve’s face to say, “Don't get in my way.” 

For the first time all day, Steve feels something besides numb and tired. He feels the hot anger curl in his chest. “You're nothing but a bully. You're an asshole.” He puts every ounce of vehemence he has into his voice, a sick kind of accomplishment rising up when he sees the way Billy's eye twitches. 

It's a surprise when Billy doesn't hit him again, doesn't shove him back into the wall with too much momentum. Instead, Billy looks away. The hallway is deserted already, and they're alone. Billy could probably get away with trying something right now. No one would know unless their fight got loud enough or a teacher happened upon them. Steve braces for the hit anyway, readying himself for whatever is coming his way.

Billy meets his eyes again, something about him almost resigned. “Yeah, I'm an asshole,” he concedes. Voice quiet, he says, “But you're no fucking saint, Harrington. Where are your friends? Where's that girlfriend of yours?” He asks these questions like they're a secret, like they are razor blades down Steve's throat. Billy tilts his head. “I think I'm not the only asshole around here.”

“You don't know me. You know  _ nothing _ about me.” Steve can't deal with this insanity here. He doesn't know why Billy wants there to be some kind of rivalry between them or whatever it is the guy is gunning for. But now that fists have been thrown, there's real animosity there. Steve hates him, hates the unnecessary complications Billy creates in Steve's already fucked up life. 

He says, “Fuck off, Billy. We're done here.” Then Steve is pushing past him, bumping their shoulders together with a little more force than needed. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he can't believe Billy just lets him go. 

 

The rest of the day is sour. Steve only makes it through the rest of his classes because he doesn't want to be pulled into the office again for truancy. Skipping one class with the aid of a vague excuse slip is one thing, but he doesn't want to make a habit. He knows how easy it would be to gives in and stay home with no one important really noticing for a while. Besides, catching up on work isn't his strong suit. So he moves from class to class, changes out textbooks at his locker, and then all he has to do is get through basketball practice.

“Can you see straight?” Coach asks with a genuinely concerned tone in his voice as he looks Steve over. “Maybe you should sit this one out.” 

If someone had asked him before he walked into the gym if he wanted to go home, then he would have said yes. Now that he's been given the option, however, Steve wants anything but that. He sees Billy stride into the room, scratching at his stomach lazily, and even that isn't enough to make him take Coach's offer. 

“I'm good.” He’s already changed out for practice, so he melts into line with the other boys warming up. 

It doesn’t take long for Billy to make his presence known, joking around with some of the guys. Steve keeps distance between them as much as possible. They end up in the same scrimmage team, having to work together instead of against each other for once. It means Billy doesn’t have an easy excuse to get in Steve’s space and try and push him around. So Steve just passes the ball instead of trying to take the shot, eyes catching on what looks suspiciously like a cigarette burn on Billy’s arm. He stares when Billy makes the shot with flourish as he watches the motion and transfer of energy. 

“You could take some notes,” Billy says casually as he saunters past Steve a minute later, moving with the rest of the team to the other end of the court. The worst Billy left him with over the weekend is a split lip that just adds to the affected badass image Billy has. The smirk on his mouth as he playfully shoves him before he’s out of range pisses Steve off more than it would normally. 

After that, he plays harder. Pushing his body feels good, it gives the restless energy that seems to be directly connected to being around Billy. Maybe it’s because with everything that had been suddenly thrust upon him—losing the best relationship he’s ever had and diving head first into battling monsters, watching a little kid be  _ possessed _ —had mostly been out of his control. It’s all just simmering in the back of his head, threatening to push forward at his periphery. He runs faster and starts playing more offense, barely treading this side of foul. 

Billy’s manic grin, scabbed up lip splitting a little, flashes at him from the out of bounds line. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> All my love to lavenderlotion who did beta work for this chapter and who caught feels with me WITHOUT even having seen the show. You're a real star! <3


End file.
